Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FREAK
Our arrival back at the clubhouse is almost anticlimactic, the trip having gone more smoothly than we could have anticipated. Our disguise, our excuse for crossing the border, hadn’t even been questioned.
We’d met our contact, handed off the guns, and got the payment without a hitch.
Now we’re back on the compound. At five a.m., it’s deserted, the prez and VP obviously having returned to their beds after receiving the all-clear from us once we’d safely crossed back over the border.
Apart from Knight, who’d been manning the gate, only a couple of prospects from Wyoming, who had delivered the guns, were waiting for us to collect their share of the cut.
Once we’d handed it over, and they’d disappeared into the night, Tempest, Woody, and I had gone to the bar where we’d helped ourselves to a stiff whisky.
“That fuckin’ border control officer,” Tempest growls. “Him calling us do-gooders for wanting to make migrants' lives a little easier? Fuckin’ asshole.” I have to admit, the righteous indignation the sergeant-at-arms had displayed at the time had eased our progress.
“Did you see the way they were living?” Woody asks rhetorically. We all had.
I’m wondering what they were all running from that made the United States seem an attractive alternative.
We hadn’t seen big, tented encampments – they’d already been dismantled – but the smaller non-profit shelters were bad enough.
We’d actually stopped there and offloaded the clothing and other goods we were carrying, for which they seemed overly grateful.
Then we’d proceeded to the meet point, and delivered the guns.
“The American Dream, Brother,” Tempest answers him.
“Yeah, like what we’re living,” I comment.
“We’ve got it good, Bro.”
I can’t disagree. I’ve got food, shelter, money coming in – even if not all of it’s legal. But I can’t say that for everyone. Even in our own locality, there’s poverty.
Woody’s poured us more shots. He raises his glass so we can chink ours against it. “We made it, Brothers.”
His words are a sober reminder that we could otherwise be locked up and facing decades in a penitentiary. We might be living the life, but it’s not without risks. Tonight, though, we’ve gotten away with it.
Adrenaline is taking a while to fade. Those shot glasses are filled and emptied time and time again. The sun’s starting to rise over the horizon by the time I drag myself off to bed.
I let my clothes lie where they drop, have a piss, clean my teeth, then fall onto the mattress. The return drive to Flagstaff, then the adrenaline rush of transporting the guns across the border, coupled with the copious amount of alcohol I’d imbibed, results in sleep overcoming me quickly.
When I awake, I come to slowly, taking a moment to gather myself.
Images flit through my head, the first making me smile, remembering how I shocked the hell out of Toni by claiming her with a kiss, and in front of my son.
I wonder what she and Ace are doing now?
At least I’ll be able to see her tomorrow, and will hopefully be staying the for the next week before bringing Ace home.
I still have to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why he’s missing the last few days of school, but I’ll think of something.
Reaching for my phone, noting it’s already gone noon, I check whether Ace has sent me any messages – I was dead to the world last night, and the ping of an incoming text might not have woken me. But nothing’s come through, so I send him one.
Dad: How’s it going, kid?
Then, I type out another to Toni.
Freak: Hope my boy’s behaving himself?
Thinking for a moment before sending it, I rewrite it.
Freak: Hope our boy’s behaving himself.
I think she’ll appreciate the correction, as it acknowledges Ace and her relationship.
While that’s something their DNA can’t deny, and though I’ve got thoughts in my head about making her mine, actually putting into words that she’s also got a claim on him does leave a sour taste in my mouth. But it’s done and sent.
I wait for an answer, but none comes. I shrug. They’re probably out enjoying themselves, answering messages, the last thing on their mind. It’s the first time Ace has been away from me for an extended period of time, and I hadn’t expressly stressed the need for him to check in.
Throwing off the sheet, I ease myself out of bed. After planting my feet on the floor, I stand and stretch my arms up over my head. Fuck, but my shoulders are sore. Guess that’s what comes from being stuck most of yesterday in a cage.
After having a shower, letting the warm water ease my sore muscles, I towel off, brush my teeth, and then dress.
Finally, sliding into my cut, I emerge from my room to venture downstairs.
The clubroom is relatively empty, only Dee/Dum is behind the bar with a tablet in hand, obviously taking inventory.
Rattler and Paint are playing pool. I start to wave my hand in greeting, but pause it midway, taking a second look at the two brothers at the table.
I rub my eyes, then, confirming my orbs aren’t deceiving me, I go on over.
“What the fuck, Rat?”
“Good to see you too, Brother,” he vocalises, then bends over to take another shot. He misses.
I chuckle and slap my hand around the back of his bare head. “You lose a bet or upset a lady?”
Self-consciously, Rattler rubs his hand over the place where his ponytail used to be. It’s been chopped off, and the spot where it was now matches the rest of his tightly shorn head.
Paint catches my eye and winks at me. “Some bitch called it a rat’s tail.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me. “Now why the fuck didn’t we think of that?” Shaking my head, I realise it’s been years, and we never connected the dots.
Rat snarls, “Paint knows fuck all. I just wanted a fuckin’ change. I’m growing it out. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”
Idly waving my hand, I suggest, “Then why didn’t you leave it as it was, and let the rest grow to catch up with it?”
“Get out of here, Freak. You’re putting me off my game.”
“You don’t have a game,” Paint observes while clearing the table, then sinking the black ball easily. He holds out his hand.
Rat groans and places a ten-dollar bill in it. “Set them up again.”
As Paint obliges, my stomach growls. Leaving the brothers to rack the balls on the pool table, I head for the kitchen.
Breakfast is long over, of course, but I’m hoping one of the club girls will be around to rustle up some brunch. Of course, it’s just my luck to walk in and find Trixie sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through a magazine.
“Afternoon, Freak.” Her voice is pleasant enough, but her expression is wary.
I raise my chin, but before I can speak, footsteps sound behind me.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Good fuckin’ night, wasn’t it?”
Turning, I see Tempest grinning. “It went smoothly,” I agree, but stop there. I’m not going to say more in front of Trixie.
“Gonna cook us something?” Tempest doesn’t even try to hint at his needs, just asks directly.
Trixie closes her magazine without complaining. “Want a late breakfast, or something else?”
“I’ll take eggs, bacon, sausage links, and hash browns.” Tempest places his order.
I’m easy, so I say, “Same for me.” Going over to the coffee machine, I test the jug to see if it's hot, then pour myself a coffee. I raise a brow toward the sergeant-at-arms. He nods, so I get another cup out and fill that too.
Trixie busies herself, going between the fridge and the stove, gathering the items for our late breakfast together. She casts a look over her shoulder at me. “How’s Ace doing? You heard from him?”
It’s none of her fucking business. But as Tempest tilts his head questioningly, I take it he is also interested.
“He’s doing great,” I spit out, tossing her one of my best enforcer looks to prevent her from probing further.
In truth, I know nothing about him since I dropped him off with his aunt last evening.
Apart from when he’s at school, he’s either here with me, with Ma, or very occasionally, with one school friend whom we’ve vetted beforehand.
This is the first time he’s been such a long distance away from me since he was six months old.
Surreptitiously, I draw my phone out of my pocket.
The screen showing no new notifications just confirms what I’d suspected.
I hadn’t felt it buzzing, and there’s been no response to either of my messages. I frown.
“You okay, Bro?” Tempest catches my expression.
With a glance toward Trixie, I stick to saying, “All’s good.” Remembering her warning before I took Ace to Flagstaff, she would probably blow his lack of response all out of proportion. He’s probably having such a good time with his aunt, he’s overlooked my text.
Trixie starts plating up, and soon, Tempest and I have full plates in front of us. Neither of us speaks for some time, as we’re too busy stuffing our faces. Me, in particular, as I can’t remember the last time I ate. I think it was when I grabbed a sandwich yesterday, before I went to pick up Ace.
Once our plates are as clean as if we’d licked them, Trixie collects them both. Tempest jerks his head toward me, and I follow him into the clubroom.
Bullseye and Saint are sitting at a table and wave for us to join them.
“Got your message that all went well last night,” Prez starts. “Good job. Any comments about how it went?”
I defer to Tempest with a raise of my chin.
“Nah, Prez,” he tells them. “That charity disguise seems like a go. They checked our credentials, but didn’t appear suspicious.”
“You got the guns where they needed to be.” Saint leans back in his chair. “Sounds like a success to me.”
“I’d rather we still had the route over the mountains,” I observe. “Fuckin’ shit that we gave that up to the Mojave Devils.”